I help Keith gather controllers and untangle charging cables while Naomi stacks the empty soda cans into a precarious tower that immediately collapses.
"Oops," she says cheerfully, not looking apologetic at all.
Dylan appears from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with sandwiches, bags of chips, and what looks like enough cookies to feed a small army.
"Food's ready," he announces, setting the tray on the dining table.
My stomach does something weird at the word "food."
Not anxiety, exactly. More like... anticipation?
When was the last time I actually looked forward to eating something?
Naomi bounces up from where she's been rebuilding her can tower. "Ooh, sandwiches! I'm grabbing a soda. Dyl, you made the pickles, right?"
"Obviously," Dylan replies, his tone dry but not unkind.
We settle around the dining table—Keith and Naomi on one side, Dylan and me on the other.
The arrangement feels natural somehow, like we've done this before even though we haven't.
Dylan starts handing out sandwiches without asking anyone what they want. He passes one to Naomi, one to Keith, and then slides a plate in front of me.
Turkey club.
I stare at it for a moment.
That's... my favorite. How did he know that?
Keith catches my expression and grins. "Dyl's weird about food. Like, if he makes you something specific, it's basically a compliment."
Dylan shoots Keith a look. "Shut up."
"It's true though!" Naomi chimes in, already halfway through her sandwich. "Remember that time he made Keith eat an entire jar of wasabi pickles as punishment for losing a bet?"
Keith groans, dropping his head into his hands. "Naomi, please don't tell that story."
"Why not? It was hilarious!"
I laugh—I can't help it—and Dylan's gaze flicks to me. Just for a second. Like he wants to see my reaction but doesn't want me to notice him watching.
Weird. But... not bad weird?
The food is good. Really good. The company is... comfortable in a way I wasn't expecting.
We eat and talk—Naomi dominates the conversation like always, telling increasingly ridiculous stories about her professors.
Keith laughs at all the right moments, throwing in his own commentary.
Dylan contributes the occasional dry remark that somehow makes everything funnier.
And I just... exist.
Without thinking too much.
Without performing.
Without the constant voice in my head screaming that I don't deserve this.
It's still there—that voice. Always there. But it's quieter right now. Manageable.
When we're done eating, Dylan pushes a cookie toward me across the table. "You need something sweet."
I raise an eyebrow but take it.
Chocolate chip. My favorite.
Okay, that's definitely not a coincidence.
I take a bite and it's perfect—crispy edges, soft center, the chocolate still slightly melted.
"Good?" Dylan asks.
I nod. "Really good. Thanks."
Something flickers across his expression—satisfaction, maybe—before it smooths back into his usual neutral mask.
Keith leans back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead. The movement makes his shirt ride up slightly and I very deliberately look at my cookie instead.
Don't be weird.
"So, Cecil," Keith says, and his tone has shifted slightly. More serious. "We've got a question for you."
My stomach does a little flip.
Oh no. What kind of question?
"What's that?" I manage, keeping my voice steady.
Keith's expression turns genuinely serious for a moment before his smile returns—softer this time, more careful. "Want to move in with us?"
Wait...
What?
My brain completely stalls out.
"I..." Words. I need words. "What?"
Dylan cuts in, his voice low and measured. "You'd have to stay for dinner first. And overnight. See if you actually like being here."
Stay overnight? Here?
Naomi's eyes light up. "Ooh, yes! We can make it a whole thing! I'll bring dessert for dinner!"
The room feels like it's spinning slightly.
They want me to move in. Move in. Live here. With them.
Why would they want that?
You've been here for a few hours and they already want you gone so badly they're trying to trap you into staying permanently—
No. Stop. That doesn't make sense.
"I..." My voice sounds distant even to my own ears. "I need to think about it."
Dylan nods like that's a perfectly reasonable answer. "Okay. But you're staying for dinner tonight. And overnight. No backing out."
Keith grins. "Yeah, no escape now. We've already got you."
Naomi giggles. "Plus Dyl's cooking dinner and it's going to be amazing and you'll never want to leave."
I laugh, feeling a weird flutter in my chest that might be anxiety or might be something else entirely.
"I'll... I'll think about it. About moving in, I mean. But yeah. I can stay tonight."
Can I though? Should I?
What if I have a nightmare? What if they see how broken I actually am?
What if—
"Great!" Keith's smile is infectious and I find myself smiling back despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. "I'll show you the guest room later. It's nothing fancy but it's comfortable."
Dylan stands, collecting plates with efficient movements. "I'll start on dinner."
"I'll help!" Naomi bounces up, following him to the kitchen.
Keith turns to me, his expression softening. "You okay? You look a little overwhelmed."
I am overwhelmed. Completely. Totally. But also...
"I'm fine," I say, and it's not entirely a lie. "Just... surprised, I guess."
"Good surprised or bad surprised?"
I consider that. "Good, I think. Just... unexpected."
Keith's smile turns gentle. "We don't have to figure everything out right now. Just... stay tonight. See how it feels. No pressure."
I nod, something loosening slightly in my chest. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that."
The afternoon blurs into evening in a comfortable haze.
Naomi and Dylan take over the kitchen, their bickering about spice levels and cooking times providing a constant background soundtrack.
Keith shows me around the apartment properly—pointing out the second bathroom, the balcony with its view of the city, the closet that's supposed to be for storage but is actually just full of Keith's collection of vintage video game boxes.
"I have a problem," he admits, gesturing at the towers of carefully preserved packaging.
"That's one way to put it," I reply, and he laughs.
We end up back in the living room and Keith pulls out his phone. "You should probably let your dad know you're staying, right?"
Oh. Right. Dad.
"Yeah, I should call him."
Keith nods toward the balcony. "You can go out there if you want privacy."
I step outside, pulling out my phone. The cool evening air wraps around me, cutting through some of the warmth from inside.
Dad answers on the first ring. "Hey, kiddo! How's it going?"
"It was good, Dad." I lean against the balcony railing. "Really good, actually. Um... Keith asked if I wanted to stay the night. Is that okay?"
"Of course!" Dad sounds genuinely pleased. "I'm glad you're having fun. You haven't done something like this in... well, in a long time."
Never. I've never done something like this. Not in this life or the last one.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Thanks, Dad."
"Just text me if you need anything, okay? And have fun. You deserve it."
I don't. I really don't. But—
"I will. Love you."
"Love you too, Cecil."
I hang up and stand there for a moment, just staring out at the city as it transitions from day to evening. The sky is turning orange and pink, the buildings casting long shadows.
You're really doing this. Staying overnight. With people you barely know.
Keith isn't someone you barely know. You've known him since you were kids.
In another life. Another world. Does that even count?
The balcony door slides open and Keith pokes his head out. "Everything okay?"
I turn, tucking my phone back into my pocket.
"Yeah. Dad said it's fine."
"Cool." Keith steps out fully, joining me at the railing. "Dinner should be ready in like an hour. Dyl takes cooking very seriously."
"I noticed."
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sunset.
"Can I ask you something?" Keith says eventually.
"Sure."
"Do you remember Dylan? From when we were kids?"
I blink, surprised by the question. "I... I remember you. Obviously. But Dylan..." I trail off, searching my memory. "There's something. Something about a cat?"
Keith's face lights up. "Yes! You found Dylan's cat when we were like seven. It had gotten out and you found it hiding under a car. You brought it back to his house."
The memory surfaces slowly—hazy and distant but there. A small black cat with white paws. A boy with dark eyes who didn't say thank you out loud but looked at me like I'd done something important.
"I remember," I say softly. "We didn't really talk though. You and I were always running around but Dylan was..."
"Quieter," Keith finishes. "Yeah. He's always been like that. Takes him a while to warm up to people. But once he does..." He smiles. "He's fiercely loyal. Protective."
Is that why he knew my favorite sandwich?
Because I was the kid who found his cat?
"That's... actually really sweet," I admit.
Keith bumps my shoulder gently with his. "He likes you. Even if he's not great at showing it."
"How can you tell?"
"He made you food without being asked. That's basically Dylan's love language."
I laugh, the sound carried away by the evening breeze. "Good to know."
We head back inside where the smell of cooking has intensified into something absolutely incredible. My stomach growls audibly and Keith grins.
"See? Your body knows what's up."
Dinner is Dylan's lasagna and it's possibly the best thing I've ever eaten. Layers of pasta and cheese and rich meat sauce that tastes like it's been simmering for hours.
"This is amazing," I say around a mouthful, and Dylan's expression does something almost like a smile.
"It's my mom's recipe," he says. "She taught me when I was twelve."
Naomi has brought chocolate cake for dessert and by the time we're finished eating, I feel comfortably full in a way I haven't felt in... I can't remember how long.
"Movie?" Keith suggests as we migrate back to the living room.
Naomi immediately pulls up a romantic comedy on the TV but Dylan vetoes it with a single look.
"Absolutely not."
"But it's good!"
"It's terrible and you have terrible taste."
They bicker for a few minutes before settling on some old sci-fi movie I've never heard of. I curl up on the couch, Keith on one side of me, Naomi on the other. Dylan claims the armchair across from us.
The movie is actually pretty good—weird and campy but in an endearing way. Naomi provides commentary throughout, Keith throws popcorn at the screen during the particularly ridiculous parts, and Dylan watches with what might be amusement hiding behind his usual stoic expression.
And I just... relax.
Actually, genuinely relax.
No performing. No forcing smiles. Just existing in this moment with these people who seem to genuinely enjoy my company.
Maybe it won't be so bad, I think as the credits roll.
Staying here. Being around them.
For some reason, I feel very comfortable.
My gaze drifts between them—Naomi stretching dramatically, Keith gathering empty bowls, Dylan standing to turn off the TV.
I'm just not sure if it's the place itself or the people surrounding me.
Either way... right now, in this moment, it feels like somewhere I could belong.
Naomi is the first to call it a night, yawning dramatically. "I'm dying. Actual death. Bedtime."
"You're so dramatic," Keith says fondly.
"It's part of my charm." She hugs me before heading down the hall. "Night, Cecil! See you in the morning!"
Keith shows me to the guest room—simple and clean with a comfortable-looking bed and neutral walls.
"Bathroom's down the hall if you need it," he says.
"And I'm right next door if you need anything."
"Thanks, Keith."
He lingers in the doorway for a moment, his expression soft. "I'm really glad you stayed."
"Me too," I say, and I mean it.
He smiles and closes the door partway, leaving it open just a crack.
I hear him retreat to his room, the sound of another door closing softly.
Dylan appears a moment later, holding a set of pajamas. "These should fit. They're extras."
I take them, the fabric soft under my fingers. "Thanks, Dyl."
He nods, his dark eyes studying me for a moment. "Night, Cecil."
"Night."
He pulls my door closed—not all the way, just mostly—and I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall.
I change into the pajamas—they're comfortable and smell faintly like detergent and something else, something that might be Dylan's cologne—and climb into bed.
The room is quiet. The house is quiet.
But it's not the oppressive silence of being alone. It's the comfortable quiet of knowing other people are nearby.
I'm safe here.
I drift off thinking about Keith's smile and Dylan's lasagna and Naomi's laugh.
I'm standing on a rooftop.
The city stretches out around me like a dark map, neon lights bleeding into the night sky. Wind whips my hair into chaos, stinging my eyes.
I know this place.
I know this feeling.
No. Not again. Please not again.
Mom is standing at the edge, her back to me. Her dark hair tangles in the wind, her white dress billowing like a broken wing.
"Cecil," she says without turning. Her voice is wrong. Too low. Too hollow.
I try to move but my feet are rooted to the concrete. "Mom..."
She turns and it's not Mom.
It's me.
My face. My eyes. My body.
But wearing her dress, her expression, her death.
The smile that spreads across my own face is grotesque—too wide, too knowing.
"Cecil," I say to myself. "Why did you let me go?"
I didn't—I tried—I'm sorry—
"You killed me," my reflection says, stepping closer. "You killed her. You kill everything you touch."
The rooftop tilts and I'm falling—
I jolt awake with a scream caught in my throat.
No no no no—
My heart is trying to break through my ribs. The room spins.
I can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't—
I stumble out of bed, nearly tripping over my own feet, and barely make it to the bathroom before the panic really hits.
I grip the sink with both hands, knuckles white, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Wild eyes. Messy hair. Face pale and slick with sweat.
You look like you're dying.
You should be dying.
You deserve to be-
No. Stop. Breathe.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face. Once. Twice. Three times.
Count the drops running down my cheeks. One, two, three, four, five...
My reflection still looks terrified.
It wasn't real. It was just a dream. She's not here.
You're not on that rooftop.
You're safe.
Are you though?
I press my palms flat against the sink, forcing myself to breathe slowly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In. Out.
The panic is still there—clawing at my throat, making my hands shake—but it's more manageable now. Like a wild animal on a leash instead of actively mauling me.
I don't know how long I stand there. Minutes maybe. Could be hours. Time feels weird when you're trying not to fall apart.
Eventually the shaking stops. My breathing evens out. The reflection in the mirror still looks haunted but at least I don't look actively dying anymore.
I should go back to bed.
But the thought of lying in the dark, of closing my eyes and potentially ending up back on that rooftop—
No.
I head back to the bedroom and climb into bed but I leave the lamp on. The warm light pushes back the shadows, makes the room feel safer.
I pull the blankets up to my chin and stare at the ceiling, willing myself to relax.
You're fine. You're safe. It was just a nightmare.
But it wasn't just a nightmare. It was a memory. A truth.
You did kill her.
Stop.
Somewhere in the quiet house, I hear a sound.
Faint. Like a door opening carefully.
Footsteps in the hallway. Quiet. Deliberate.
They stop outside my door.
The door inches open slowly, and a shadow slips inside.
Dylan.
He's wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, his dark hair slightly messed from sleep. His eyes find me immediately and something in his expression shifts when he sees I'm awake.
"You okay?" he whispers.
I don't know how to answer that.
My throat feels too tight. If I try to speak I might actually start crying and that would be—
Dylan crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed without asking permission. Not close enough to touch but close enough that I can feel his presence, solid and grounding.
"Bad dream?" he asks quietly.
I manage a nod.
Dylan's gaze is intense but not judgmental. Just... there. Seeing me.
"Want me to stay?" he asks. "For a bit?"
The question cracks something open in my chest.
Yes. Please yes. Don't leave me alone with my thoughts.
I nod again, not trusting my voice.
Dylan settles more comfortably, his back against the headboard, careful not to crowd me. "Okay."
That's it. Just "okay."
He doesn't ask what the nightmare was about.
Doesn't tell me it's fine or that I'm overreacting.
Doesn't try to fix anything.
He just... sits there.
Being present.
The panic that's been threatening to drag me under starts to recede. Slowly. Like tide pulling back from the shore.
The shadows in the room don't seem quite so menacing with Dylan sitting there. The silence doesn't feel so oppressive.
Time passes—I'm not sure how much. Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.
Eventually my eyelids start to feel heavy. The exhaustion from the panic attack catching up with me.
Dylan must notice because he shifts slightly. "You should try to sleep."
"What if..." I stop, swallow hard. "What if it happens again?"
"Then I'll still be here," he says simply.
Something in my chest loosens at that.
He'll still be here.
Dylan stands up carefully. "I'll leave the light on."
"Thank you," I manage, my voice rough.
He nods and heads toward the door. But instead of leaving completely, he settles on the floor just outside my room, his back against the wall.
Is he... is he going to stay there?
"Dyl?" I call quietly.
"Yeah?"
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "But I'm going to anyway."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the fact that this person I barely remember from childhood is willing to sit on the floor all night just to make sure I'm okay.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Go to sleep, Cecil."
And somehow, impossibly, I do.
The knowledge that Dylan is right outside—that I'm not alone in this house, in this darkness—makes it possible to close my eyes without being pulled back to that rooftop.
I drift off to the sound of his quiet breathing from the hallway.
Safe.